


That's a Ten on the Richter Scale

by multicolored_robot



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Just Sexy Times, nerds, that's all it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 06:15:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11822892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/multicolored_robot/pseuds/multicolored_robot
Summary: It's in moments like these where Bellamy and Clarke know they've each found their person.





	That's a Ten on the Richter Scale

It's just another Sunday night.

"Come on, babe,” Bellamy's harsh breath sounded in her ear. "Come on."

Clarke spread her legs wider, her fingers gripping the sheets, back arching. Bellamy's torso, the smooth hot glide of him, felt strong and capable between her knees, his dusky skin slick with sweat. Their breaths mingled, his warm against the side of her face, running like a current down her body. Clarke was hit with the thought, _this is him. This is the guy I want to spend the rest of my life with, the guy I never want to quit on_.

"Oh, fuck," she moaned, high and breathy. She tightened her hold on one of the bars above their heads. Bellamy heaved his arm upwards and grasped her hand, twining their fingers together.

The feel of his body heavy on hers, no part of her not covered by him except her legs, had her brain synapses sparking. There was nothing she could do but take it, and it was too much and not enough.

She let her calves dangle, lifting her half-lidded eyes to see him better. Her cheeks flushed hotter when she realized he was already studying her, his mouth open, his eyes black in the dim light. Their eyes made contact and Clarke surged up at the same time he surged down, and they met lips like they were half starved.

And she was; Clarke had come to a point in her life where she's willing to admit nearly everything she did with Bellamy turned her on. Going slow, riding his brains out, doggy style, oral. The works.

But there were times when Bellamy just seemed to want to _take_ , handling her like she wasn't breakable, looking her in the eyes with the same intensity he just gave, and she loved it when he got like that. He fucked her like she was his, and like he wanted to be no where else, and she was never more grateful for sex as a concept than she was in those moments.

When they first started this, Clarke didn't really moan a whole lot in bed, save for sharp intakes of breath and verbal encouragement now and then.

Now, though.

Now Bellamy was drawing noises from her with every breath, or so it seemed. She was too far gone to really make an astute observation. Her heart beat double time with every slick stroke of his cock in and out of her, and it felt so good.

"I love it when you fuck me," she said in his ear. She really, really did.

"Tell me what else you love," he volleyed back, breathless and amused. The prick.

"I love watching you come."

His hips kept the same steady, relentless rhythm as she struggled to form her thoughts.

"I love it when you tie me up."

"I love that too."

She took a deep breath and murmured, "I love you."

The next thrust was harder, scooting her up the bed. She cried out, gripping his back with the hand that wasn't being held in his, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his slick skin. Bellamy attached his lips to the skin under her ear, and in between kisses, replied to her in kind.

"Love you so much, Clarke."

He snuck a hand down to rub gently but surely at her clit, and it surprised her, and because this had been building up for hours, she was gone in a matter of seconds.

She squeezed her eyes shut at the peak of it, vaguely hearing him start to lose it above her, his thrusts more and more erratic until he was sitting up on his knees, gripping her waist. His palms looked enormous spread over the tight skin of her hip bones, slamming her down on his cock the way he liked, hitting her sweet spot.

She was still going through the after shocks when he let go, bending forward to muffle his groan against her neck, still thrusting. She smiled and took it, mouthing on his shoulder, squeezing his arms.

They laid in silence for a few moments, him still on top of her, breathing hard. So was she.

"That was pretty great," she joked, lightly pulling on a lock of his black hair. “I’d say it measured six point five on the Richter scale."

"Oh, you would?" He propped himself on his elbows and smiled down at her, pecking her nose. "It felt like an eight."

"Alright, if you're aiming that high, why not ten?"

"The Richter scale doesn't go to ten, babe.” He was smirking at her. She lightly hit his shoulder, hiding her laugh.

He rolled off her and onto his back, laying a palm on his own chest, the other over his head. Clarke's eyes followed him, and knew immediately it would make an excellent portrait. She would have him keep his eyes closed, that slight smile on his lips. Or maybe eyes open, looking straight at her as she drew, all the depth and love and pain hidden in them. She reached over and traced his cheekbones delicately, squinting at him.

"You look like you're concentrating." He observed, amused.

She smiled. "Just thinking I'd like to draw you."

His hand came up to take her wrist and gently set it down in the bed between them, intertwining their fingers. His thumb slid against her inner wrist and she wondered if he could feel her pulse.

"You're sweaty," said Bellamy absentmindedly, stroking her skin. She laughed.

"That tends to happen." She bit her lip. "You look great. Like, prime sketch material."

"You look," his eyes roamed to where her bottom lip was caught between her teeth, "like you've been thoroughly fucked."

"Well, I mean..." She smirked, her cheeks heating. She watched as he leaned towards her, felt his lips at the corner of her mouth.

"Give me 15 minutes and we'll go for that ten," he murmured, pulling away and throwing the sheets off their legs.

Clarke stretched, content as a cat. "I thought you said there was no ten."

His smirk was somehow blinding. “For us I’ll make an exception.”

**Author's Note:**

> Bellarke owns my ass 2k17


End file.
